My plan this summer was to force myself to write to the end of my historical novel, a book I have been working on for a number of years while I completed other projects. Summer is my best writing time, when I am home, puttering around my house, the children off in camp, with no teaching responsibilities fracturing my attention. My aim, then, was to bring this all to a head, especially since the end of this novel is meant to be very dramatic and also violent, a crescendo of so many parts, voices, themes. And yet even the most thoughtful of plans have a way of upending.

Set against the crumbling backdrop of late 19th century British Empire, my novel is about the unlikely friendship between an Indian woman and English woman—a bond that is threatened when they move from India to a Caribbean sugar estate, and violence starts to sweep the plantation. It is an ambitious book, as I am juggling multiple points of view along with foreign and historic settings, politics, even technical information about sugar growing that I must make vivid to a modern reader.

After building up this world over a number of years, I anticipated that the challenge of writing the ending would be that it was like a tidal wave that is slowly mounting, ready to curl; and yet one would still need to pay attention to the water particles. One would still have to build scene by scene, moment by moment, even as you were aware of these huge forces compelling the narrative forward.

To my surprise, the ending, the denouement, a series of fast-paced acts, is coming swifter than I expected. There was no deep rumble in my consciousness, no mounting wave of creativity. Mostly I find myself sketching out plot—one bad event and bad decision leading to another, and hopefully mounting to tragedy. This is somehow vaguely disappointing, and runs counter to my more romantic vision of the summer’s work. But perhaps this is what I need to do—work more as an architect, more cerebrally— setting down the structure. Then the deeper, unconscious swells will emerge.

This is what I tell myself now as I write event-driven material, pushing toward the end. Sometimes we need to ride the waves. And sometimes we must navigate with a plot compass, trusting that instinct and fever dreams will return.